Emcee
by meg143562
Summary: A performer from the Weimar era agreed to be interviewed about his work as the Emcee in the infamous Kit Kat Klub. Years later, another performer from the club wrote a memoir further describing the enigmatic Emcee. The two works are juxtaposed to form a nearly complete timeline of the careers of two Cabaret artists in their quest to both entertain and connect.
1. Chapter 1

Stanford University, 1972

[Beginning of video]

**Interviewer**: Thank you for joining me, Mr...um, Emcee.

**Emcee**: I suppose the pleasure is mine, being invited to such a prestigious American university to be interviewed by such an accomplished graduate student. I must warn you, I won't be as interesting as Elie Wiesel or Coco Shumann.

**Interviewer**: Oh don't be silly, any story from such a dark, turbulent time in history is interesting.

**Emcee**: Ah, but you see, my story begins before everything was dark and turbulent. It was all quite mundane, actually, until about 1933. My life was not a unique one; I was simply a middle-class entertainer. The club I worked at and the people I worked with meant the world to me, especially...

**Interviewer**: Especially what?

**Emcee**: Never mind, I'll talk about him later.

**Interviewer**: ...Ok, shall we begin?

**Emcee**: [chuckles] I thought we already had.

**Interviewer**: Well, I have a some, uh, questions that I'd like you to answer, if you don't mind [unfolding paper]...The first is your name, unless it is "Emcee."

**Emcee**: My name is one of the many things that could have gotten me killed back in Germany, but not for any good reasons. It's a very Jewish name, but I haven't considered myself Jewish since I was a child. I was, however, an Emcee for about ten years. I bet I still would be if Hitler hadn't become Chancellor. I feel as if I'm more of an Emcee than a Jew, so I take the title "Emcee" wherever I go.

Sometimes I wonder what the world would be like if everybody stopped identifying themselves by their names once they begin working and just used their job title.

**Interviewer**: It would be much less personal, wouldn't it?

**Emcee**: I'd say more so. For the most part, we choose what we do for a living. Our work is much more representative of us than the names we are given before anyone even knows who we are.

I much preferred the people who attempted to close my Cabaret because they disliked the content than those who threw bricks at my window because of my name.


	2. Chapter 2

April 19th, 1986

When I was a young man, all I ever did was create. From original skits to choreography, I worked alongside other young performers and our Emcee to come up with material to entertain the Kit Kat Klub's weekend audiences. There were times I'd write enough material in a week to cover two weekends in a row. That was a long time ago; as an old man, I haven't had the drive to write for a long time.

Only ten people attended the Emcee's funeral: myself, Alice, a local rabbi, and a handful of Holocaust survivors we had spoken with at a conference a few years ago (and I'm sure if Sally were still alive, she would have been there too). It was all extremely Jewish; the Emcee would have laughed as the rabbi rocked back and forth reciting _El Maleh Rachamim_ and rolled his eyes every time someone said his ridiculously Jewish name.

Weeks earlier, I had asked him what he wanted done with his body after he died. He responded, "Should I have a choice in the matter, when so many of us did not?"

For a little while, the Emcee considered writing a memoir. He was a always a good writer and, as he put it, "That goddamned American author got it wrong, so someone needs to make it right." However, he changed his mind after his universally disliked interview.

The world was not ready to hear his story in 1972, which is unfortunate since on April 15th, the only person who could tell it passed away. I wish I could tell the story of the Emcee with integrity, but I just can't.

I can, however, tell the story we shared.

Although this is my memoir, it's also ours, the Emcee's and mine. I hope that when you reach the last page you'll know the smell of the cheap wine, the sound of the thunderous applause, and the heat of the stage lights just as we did. Also, I hope you'll know how it feels for the Emcee's strong arms to pull you close enough to hear his heartbeat through his sequined vest, just as I did.

Finally, I hope that, somehow, I will "make it right."


	3. Chapter 3

**Interviewer**: Where did you say you worked, Mr. Emcee?

**Emcee**: I worked at a sleazy little place known as the Kit Kat Klub. Before I was the Emcee, I was in the ensemble, and before that I was a spectator.

**Interviewer**: This was in the twenties, right?

**Emcee**: Well, my career began in the twenties, but my father and I had been going to that club since its opening in 1911. It was his favorite, mostly because they served cheap whisky and didn't mind that he brought me with him.

**Interviewer**: How old were you then?

**Emcee**: I was about twelve, at least when the Kit Kat Klub first opened. Most of the content of the Cabaret went over my head back then, and by the time I was old enough to understand, it had been highly censored due to the war. It was still enjoyable, though; my father would be drinking his whisky and I'd be sitting on the edge of my seat, mesmerized the performers...

**Interviewer**: Wait, so this was a political Cabaret?

**Emcee**: Um, ours had some political...undertones, but it was not considered a typical German Kabarett, spelled with a "k." Although, it wasn't a French-type Cabaret either, spelled with a "c." We took the spelling of the latter, but the Kit Kat Klub's Cabaret was something in between.

The old Emcee used to have a number that had the French Cabaret flair, with the beautiful dancers and musicians, but had the subject matter of a German Kabarett number:

_My father needs money, my uncle needs money, my mother is thin as a reed._

_But me, I'm sitting pretty - I've got all the money I need..._

One day when I was sixteen, my father took me to the club and bought whisky, just as he always did. He told me he was going to sit with his friends in the back and that I was free to join him or not, so I left him and found an empty table near the stage.

I had never sat so close to the stage before; the music from the band pounded in my ears and the sweat from the beautiful dancers occasionally fell on my bare shoulders. About halfway through the show, the Emcee stepped up to the microphone and said, "I'd like to dance with someone." He scanned the audience. His eyes first landed on a woman in her thirties, but then darted towards me. "You!" he shouted. He jumped from the stage and skipped to my table. Before I could react, the Emcee had pulled me on stage and we were dancing. He asked for my name, but I was too stunned answer.

We spun across the stage, nearly running into the other dancers. The Emcee suddenly stopped, grabbed my shoulders, and turned me towards the audience. "Give this beautiful boy a hand!" he commanded, and the audience complied. It was my first applause.

As I returned to my table, the Emcee said he hoped to see me again. I thought, no need to hope; I will be back.


	4. Chapter 4

1926

I was born in 1905 to the most traditional Catholic family in Germany. All my parents wanted their four children to do was 1. marry a Catholic and 2. have Catholic children. When I told them at the age of eighteen that I didn't want to continue my education, they weren't too upset (I was still planning on having those Catholic children, right?). When I told them I wanted to be a writer, they weren't bothered. However, when they found three years later that I (twenty-one) was meeting a boy in Berlin every Friday evening, I was promptly kicked out of the house. After all, what good is it for a Catholic parent to keep a child who won't produce Catholic grandchildren?

Being kicked out of my home meant being kicked out of my neighborhood. All my friends lived in a sort-of town just barely outside of Berlin. We all attended the same church, which sat on a hill where the steeple could be seen from every point within a two mile radius. There would've been nowhere to hide in town once everybody found out, and news travels quickly in such a small place. With nowhere else to go, I ran to Berlin.

I went to the alley where I met the boy every week, not really expecting to find him there. I assumed he only went there to spend time with me on those Friday evenings. However, there he was on a Sunday night, grasping the waist of another boy as he had grasped mine merely nights before. Before shamefully hanging my head and leaving the alley, I stood there for a minute, waiting to be acknowledged. But neither of them noticed me.

Feeling dejected and lonely, I wandered further into the city. When it began to rain, I took cover under the awning of an outdoor café. The last thing I saw before leaning my head against the side of a wall and closing my eyes were the lights of a sign that read "Kit Kat Klub" reflected in the puddles on the empty street.

Several hours later, I awoke to a soft humming. It was still somewhat dark, so it took me a moment to notice the man standing above me, smoking a cigarette and humming a tune I was sure I'd heard before:

_I saw him in a café in Berlin..._

I was too tired to be startled by him. When he noticed I was awake, he said, "In the future, you can knock on that door," he pointed to the Kit Kat Klub entrance with his cigarette, "and somebody will let you in." He offered me his free hand. I took it and he pulled me up from the ground. It had stopped raining, but everything was still wet. "Tonight was not the night to sleep under the stars."

"If there were any stars to sleep under," I responded, looking up at the streetlights.

The man shook his head. "I can only imagine." He pulled at my damp shirt sleeve; I guess the awning wasn't as big and waterproof as I'd thought. "Come up to my flat with me, just above the club. I have some clothes that might fit you." He began to walk towards the club entrance. When I refrained from following, he turned and said, "Unless you have somewhere else to go." I didn't, so I walked slightly behind him as he led me inside.


	5. Chapter 5

**Interviewer**: What were you doing before you were hired at the Kit Kat Klub?

**Emcee**: I was in school for awhile, but I dropped out to work. The club was not hiring at the time, so I found myself a shelf-stocking job at a local store. Though I still managed to spend every Saturday night at the club. By the time I was eighteen, the Emcee knew my name. He would find me just before the club closed for the night and ask, "Where are your troubles now?" and I'd say "Forgotten!..." He took me backstage on a few occasions. One evening, he took me to the boys' dressing room and sat me down in front of a mirror. A skinny young man subsequently approached me with a small brush and container of what I now know was, um, eye shadow. He said I needed it, so I let him apply the makeup as the Emcee walked away.

**Interviewer**: This was your first time wearing makeup?

**Emcee**: Yes, it was.

**Interviewer**: How did it feel?

**Emcee**: How did it feel? Um, sticky. It was cheap makeup, but it looked alright. The boy, Peter was his name, knew how to apply it.

When the Emcee came back, he nodded to Peter and walked up behind me. I was still facing the mirror. He asked if I liked it and I said, "I could get used to this."

He stepped back and grinned. "I was hoping you'd say that."

**Interviewer**: And that's when you were hired?

**Emcee**: Not quite. I had to do one more thing before I was welcomed to the Kit Kat Klub cast of characters.


	6. Chapter 6

The club was dark, save for the inadequate light coming through a small window above the door. All I could see was where the floor ended and the stage began. The man stepped up onto the stage, only two feet off the ground, and gestured towards the darkness. "It's this way." I followed him through a curtain, a door, and up a flight of stairs. Finally, the man reached forward and an uncovered light bulb illuminated the stairwell. We were standing in front of an entryway covered by an old tablecloth nailed to the wall. The man pushed the cloth aside, revealing his flat. "Leave your troubles outside," he said with a smile.

On one side was a large window, offering a view of the street in front of the club. Unfortunately, most of the window was covered by the Kit Kat Klub sign outside. The opposite wall had nails stuck in it holding various articles of clothing: a long black dress, several white suspenders, a gorilla costume, and multiple Nazi sashes in a variety of sizes.

The man noticed me contemplating the array. "I'm not a Nazi, don't worry," he said, "those are just costumes."

I asked, "Sir, what kind of show do you run here?"

He took the dress from the hook and held it up to his body. "A scandalous one. One with politics, performance, and Hirschfield-approved sex." He placed the dress back on the hook, "I run a Cabaret. Surely you've seen one before."

"No, I haven't," I said with a shrug, "My family never goes to Berlin."

The man gave me a knowing look and said, "Oh, you live in that Catholic village, don't you?"

"Well, I did up until yesterday. I was kicked out."

"Um-hmm." He paused. "What's his name?"

"Excuse me?"

"If you were kicked out of Jesus land, you're either a queer, an Atheist, or a sadomasochist. You don't seem like the rough type and you're not angry enough to have lost your religion." The man opened a wooden chest and pulled out a pair of black dress pants. As he walked up to me, he grabbed a button-down shirt from another hook. "Here, put these on. You can leave your wet clothes in the sink around the corner."

I glanced around the flat. "Um, where should I change?"

He looked confused for a moment, but then nodded his head, "Right, Catholics are hopelessly modest. I'll turn around." He turned and walked towards the window. "Proceed."

As I changed, I told him about the boy I'd been seeing. I thought he might know him, but the man responded, "I've met dozens of boys like that here; none of them are monogamous. All you can do is get used to it."

The pants he gave me cut off just above my ankles and clung to my thighs. "Are the pants supposed to fit like this?" I asked, trying to adjust them.

The man turned back around and examined me. "Really the legs should cut off in the middle of your calves, but they fit you well enough." His eyes darted to an old clock on the wall, and then back at me. "I didn't ask for your name, did I?"

"It's Bobby," I told him. "And yours?"

He pulled another pair of dress pants from the chest and took the suspenders off the hook. "Just call me 'Emcee.'"


End file.
